24 Days in the Cook Islands: Lost in Paradise - Week One

We've always loved islands. There is something about the topography of these tiny land masses floating in the middle of vast oceans that holds our fascination. Islands surrounded by breathtaking beaches with tropical breezes that fill our lungs with an essential life elixir. Volcanic mountains loom in the center surrounded by vegetation of every color and size. We can’t get enough of them. With over 270,000 identified islands, we have plenty to choose from.

So why take a trip to the Cook Islands? A tiny speck on the world sphere, a place where few can find on a map? We heard it on a whisper. Travelers passing through shared their love of this mysterious place but quietly, so it could remain a secret for a bit longer. An island nation in the continent of Oceania, it is made up of 15 islands and many atolls, spread over 100 miles of some of the best-protected waters in the world. With its white sand beaches, turquoise seas, and a Polynesian culture that is essentially left untouched, we felt good about our chances. It was time to travel again, to discover a new island world. It felt like coming home.

Week One - Rarotonga

Day 1 - Arriving at Night, Rarotonga

Arriving at near midnight at Rarotonga’s International Airport, we feel a bit disoriented. It's still 80 degrees F with 100% humidity. The neon sign outside the terminal blinks “Kia Orana” in bright red letters. We're ushered onto a steaming tarmac and into a tiny airport lobby. A large ceiling fan rotates slowly overhead, a weak nod to air conditioning. A Māori woman, plays the ukulele, serenading us through the long queue of customs agents, where we're handled with unusual kindness. “Kia Orana,” the customs agents says every one in line. We soon learn that "Kia Orana" is a warm, everyday greeting in the Cook Islands that translates to “may you live a long and fulfilled life.” Open smiling immigration agents and gentle brown-faced food inspectors greet us as if we were primary school children on a field trip.

In minutes, we're whisked through customs and wait at the carousel for our bags. Although few Americans journey this far, to our surprise, our plane is chock full of English speakers. The Queen's English, spoken here, is due to New Zealand’s influence on the islands. A caramel-skinned local greets us at the carousel with a welcoming smile, dispelling any remaining travel jitters.

Then off we go to the outside area where drivers meet us with leis and more kindness. Arriving at our “villa,” which is one side of a simple duplex, we're beyond tired and hot. We soon fall into a restless sleep and awake to a Jimmy Buffet tequila sunrise.

A Hot and Sticky Sunday – Day 2

We begin our morning with a cup of tea and Nescafe, supplies left by the owners, and sit on our covered porch that looks out over a small coral beach. Warm, shallow waters are protected by an outer reef about 30 meters offshore. Rarotonga, the main and largest island of the archipelago, is unique. Surrounded by a coral reef and lagoon, similar to an atoll, it’s actually the peak of an extinct volcano.

In our villa, the internet is spotty at best, so we go old school and pull out a tourist map. We're looking for three things: a bus schedule (not running on Sundays due to picking up churchgoers), a food market (all closed on Sundays since everyone's at church), and a nearby restaurant. Not traveling heavy with food and snacks, unusual for me, our stomachs call for a big breakfast.

Unfortunately, our tourist map isn't up to date or to scale. We walk south along a quiet street to Beluga’s, a notable upscale coffee shop, only to find it closed even though the tourist map says otherwise. Then, we head north to Castaways, a dated resort but not without charm. Literally named after the movie, it comes complete with a seat made out of palm fronds, a big picture of Tom Hanks, and a soccer ball named “Wilson.” Still we're grateful that they're open and serving. Queenie, our waitress, feeds us a delicious frittata and eggs bene at a seaside table. The best part? We finish our meal with two creamy flat whites, New Zealand style.

Then off on a sweaty walk passed the Catholic Church, where we're stopped by Māori voices that echo harmoniously through stone walled chambers. The volume is staggering and we find it's best to listen from the outside. The locals are avid church goers and their choirs are renowned throughout the south pacific. I can see why. We rest in the shadow of a Mato tree and let the sound of their voices vibrate through us.

Finally, we arrive at Island Certified Bike and Scooter Rental and to our great relief they're open. There we rent a scooter for our next 8 days on Rarotonga. With the circular coastal road that's only 20 miles long and slow-moving, limited traffic makes renting a scooter seem safe. And it fits our budget for easy transportation. After a short ride, the heat of the afternoon drops us onto our porch searching for a breeze and a swim in the azure sea.

In late afternoon, our stomach rumble again. After all, it is dinner time. Now mobile, we travel down the road to the Rarotonga Lagoonarium, a rather famous resort on the island. It boasts a menu with gluten-free options, and it doesn’t disappoint. We feast on a gluten-free fried dinner of coconut shrimp, french fries, and a fish sandwich which I’m almost sure is on an Udi’s roll. Wow, what a small world. The lit tiki torches and the giant fish behind the reception desk does little to cover a resort whose days of glory have passed. But we are full and happy. Returning to our duplex, we view the sunset from our porch.

At low tide, fishermen walk along the breakwater collecting clams and oysters from the exposed coral. It gives the illusion that they're walking on water. Dogs frolic in the waves, following their masters. Our porch kitty, Opeu, a doppelgänger to our Hawaii cat, sits on the porch chair, loving our attention. We sigh contentedly and thank the travel gods for our new home away from home. An exceptional first full day on the Isle of Rarotonga.

Day 3 - Shopping Day

After a full night’s rest, we click our coffee mugs together and congratulate each other on another arrival in paradise. Our locally owned, self-catering villa is clean and well-appointed. It has a two-burner hot plate, a ¾ sized fridge, a large bed, and a sofa. Its tiled bathroom is especially nice, providing us with a cool shower several times a day. Although the villa is modest and lacks air conditioning, the back deck with a table and chairs facing a sparkling ocean and a courtyard loaded with palm trees make up for any lack of amenities.

But I am ready to get moving. Today is shopping day! Being a chef, food sourcing in a foreign country is my favorite way to discover the culture. I'm anxious to make that two-burner stove sing with the local produce and fish. We head on our scooter to the Avarua “city center.”

The first grocery store is expensive, and a bit dingy. I'm reminded once again that we're visiting a remote, developing island nation in the middle of no where. The second and newer grocery store makes up for the first. We grab some local veggies, fish, and meats. We even find a gluten-free section with bread and snacks. And miracle of all miracles, we locate Cipps, a town store that sells us camera cards and a forgotten power cord for my Kindle. Curiously, all the store names begin with CI. An abbreviation for Cook Islands, perhaps?

We unload our $250 NZ groceries ($144 US) with staples that should last us a week. Food sources on this island seemed a bit limited. At sunset, we wait for the fishermen to return with their spears, dragging floating bags behind them. Maybe they’ll sell us some fish.

Let’s Talk Birds – Day 4

On Rarotonga, the chicken population roams freely along the grassy lawns that border the beach. No one seems to corral them into neat coops to collect their eggs. “It’s just part of the island,” a local tells us calmly. The roosters start early, at 4 or 5 am, calling, claiming their territory, and the hens with their many baby chicks graze up and down all day long in front of our beachfront cottage. Yesterday, a wary hen and her two egg-sized chicks came onto our back patio while I was, ironically, grilling teriyaki chicken. They looked desperately hungry, and mama pleaded with her blinking, black, bird eyes. We threw them several handfuls of our seedy gluten-free cereal and watched them fill their bellies, at least for a day. In the distance, I view a rooster mount a hen and then take off. Typical male in the jungle.

This morning, we leave early, thinking we can beat the heat. Armed with snorkel gear, bathing suits, and scant cover-ups, we point our scooter south. Before long, we pass the famous Muri Beach, a small enclave of shops, cafes, restaurants, and signs for the fancier villas. It surprises us that this is the tourist center of the island, being no bigger than Hawi, Hawaii, 30 years ago. But in many ways, the Cook Islands are untouched by modern development, with technology such as the internet barely available even at the fanciest places. Rooted in the past, it offers us a glimpse into the world of old Polynesian island life and we love it.

We stop to look at Avana Waterfront Apartments, a possible rental for our last 5 days after our return trip from Aitutaki. It's a small two-story property with meticulous rooms perched upon a cliffside facing the sea and located near one of the famous Cook Island passages. There's a long wooden jetty where tenants can launch kayaks to explore the three wooded islands that bordered Muri Beach.

We met the caretaker, Desiree, who shows us around and tell us about a place in the lagoon where the Polynesian travelers moored their first canoes from Tahiti. A small swimming pool graces the center of the buildings, and wooden Adirondack-type chairs dot the knoll that faces the lagoon. It's utterly charming. Why are we looking for accommodations at this late date? Tim insists on keeping our last days free of reservations until we check out the island, a practice I'm really not fond of. And after viewing the property, he wants to keep searching for more. More beachfront, more easy access to bars, more action. In the end, we decide to stay with Desiree at the Avana Waterfront Apartments and we both fall in love with the place!

Backtracking to Muri Beach, we find a beautiful white sand beach with a crystal-clear lagoon and snorkel in water that is no more than 3 ft deep. Drums from a local cruise boat fill the air with a steady beat. We meet a couple of New Zealanders that we had seen at the bike rental (small island) and join them at the Yacht Club. Despite its name, it's a down-home, self-serve, nothing-fancy place and budget-friendly.

Then off we go to Charlies Rarotonga, a restaurant we hear locals talk about. It's a simple place, a hamburger restaurant with long seaside tables in an open-air pavilion. But the burgers are great. We devour fresh beef, imported from New Zealand and to our surprise, sit across from a couple from Golden, Colorado. They had road motorcycles for 20 days on both islands of New Zealand and decided to finish their trip on Rarotonga. Adventurers like us, they're the first Americans we meet and surprisingly the last. We top off our burgers with locally flavored ice cream, lilikoi hokey poki, and vanilla honeycomb.

When we get back home, we're so hot we sit in the shallow waters just off our shore and cooled our bodies a few degrees. A bit exhausted from the heat and travel wary, we pass out at 7 pm to the sound of our ceiling fan.

Day 5 - Looking for the Heart of Rarotonga

On our 5th day, we're determined to discover the heart of Rarotonga. What the Cook Islands lacks in size, they make up for in culture. Since our arrival, we've discovered that most inhabitants speak both Māori and the Queen’s English, flowing easily from one language to the next. The Polynesian food, music, and easy island hospitality permeates the streets. Wanting to learn more about the history of this island paradise, we head to the Cook Museum and Library, the oldest museum on the island.

Steering our motorized steed off the main road, we search for the museum. According to the local map, it resides on Old Road Makea. We drive past it several times until we find a small library sign attached to a one-story, weathered building that promised to represent the history of the island, or so the tourist guide claimed. After paying a small admission fee, we walk into a room off the library filled with a rather limited collection of leis, a hand-painted tapa, warped maps, and pieces of a canoe. The black and white photographs that line the walls show local women and men dressed in starched European 19th-century clothes, costumes representing the arrival of missionaries in 1821. The few original artifacts donated by private collectors, axes and spears, some weavings and fans, give a glimpse into the pre-missionary past. It seemed the missionaries destroyed most of the Cook’s indigenous historical artifacts. What was left was shipped off abroad to European museums and private collectors. We buy some post cards in the library that tell some authentic history.

The highlight of this museum is a film on display called The Navigators: Pathfinders of the Pacific. Sitting on an old bench, we watch the documentary of the original inhabitants of the Cook Islands, the travelers, who sailed from Micronesia, the Marquesas, Satawal, Tahiti, Fiji, and many other remote atolls and islands in the South Pacific. In search of a new world, they used only stars, wind, and ocean currents as their guide. This fascinating film (available on YouTube) made it worth the price of admission.

Then back out into the sunshine, we start our scooter and travel the rest of the island in less than 30 minutes. A stop at the Superstore finds us $78/NZ ($47/US) lighter after we stock up on cured salami, cheeses, wine, onion marmalade, olives, potato crisps, and more. We sit outside the market with our stash, eating lilikoi ice cream and feel the groove of the island.

Later that evening, as the sun cools into the sea, we set out a “happy hour” of New Zealand wine, eggplant parmesan, olives, cheeses, and assorted sundries. Our duplex neighbors, a young Spanish pilot, Jose, and his Italian photographer wife, Patricia, join us at our courtyard table. Unfortunately, Tim begins to complain about his knee, which he twisted badly when moving a picnic table under the shade of our coconut “forest.” After our gathering, he's unable to walk 100 ft back to our duplex without hopping most of the way. We had gotten travel insurance, but where does one go for care on this little island? Fly to New Zealand? Back to the States? Leave our adventure before it's even started? We’ve always had good luck when traveling. We’ve relied on it. Maybe we could rely on it still. Tomorrow is another day. We ice and elevate Tim’s knee and then sleep soundly despite it all.

Day 6 - A Necessary Journey

The next morning, we wake with renewed hope. The swelling of Tim’s leg has gone down significantly, but walking is still a problem. Our Samoa neighbors, Mike and Seena, chat with us from their back porch of there adjacent bungalow. When they find out about Tim’s accident, they take us under their wing. Mike cuts a noni (Nono as the Cooks call it), a potato-sized green and white fruit native to many tropical islands. Creating a poultice from the fruit and banana leaves, he tells the story of the plant and all its healing powers while wrapping Tim’s leg to draw out the pain. As Tim sits on his lounge chair facing the sea, they invite me to gather fruit from their abundant garden. I harvest bananas, paw paw (papaya), star fruit, onion stalks, chili peppers, and when I'm about to leave, an avocado falls at my feet. Right then, we fall in love with these people on this paradise island. We soon discover, the local people have unbounded generosity. Someone's always willing to help those in need or share what they have on their table.

Later, Mike showed us how to harvest the best coconuts. A certain type has a center that he called marshmallow, a soft brain-shaped inside that is delicious, especially with a shot of coconut rum in it.

Day 7 - The Clinic

The rain falls throughout the night, mingling with the sounds of the crashing surf. I wake up in a full sweat, thinking of the choices we've made.

Like why did we choose an island so remote that the internet is a luxury and air conditioning is seldom found. What’s up with choosing the most remote of island nations in the middle of nowhere, especially where medical issues are concerned? In the early days, pre-kids, we'd close our eyes and stick a pin in the world map like a perverse traveler’s version of pin the tail on the donkey. Within a year, we’d be in that very spot. Each place taught us so much that we couldn’t learn from pre-planned travel. Like when we landed in Martinique, only to find out that no one, I mean no one, spoke English, even in the capital of Fort-de-France, and the French they spoke was a mixed creole slang. I had to delve beyond my high school French to make a go of that. Or arriving in Jamaica and traveling on a country bus to Negril where chickens and children were passed from lap to lap as the bus overflowed with locals. We were pretty fearless.

Now, I find that I was questioning myself. After calling my doctor brother-in-law, he suggested that Tim may have torn his meniscus or ACL and that we should head to the clinic. So, on our 7th day, we head to the best and brightest medical facility near the town center.

Rarotonga Medical Centre is housed in a single-story market-sized building, a bit worn for wear. A painted sign outside that reads YOU ARE BRAVE surrounded by hearts and stars. Is that a joke? Although we have an appointment for 11:30, we're told it might be a wait. We settle outside on a rack of what looks like frayed stadium chairs, some with padding and some bare metal, where we watch the 20-30 local islanders wait their turn inside the hot building. We aren't hopeful. At nearly 1 pm, all but one window of the clinic has closed for the day, and the last remaining one closes for lunch. At the mention of lunch, our stomachs rumble, and strangely, Tim feels much improved. We leave and head into the town center, stopping at Trader’s Jacks, a fun, seaside bar and restaurant.

Suddenly, hop-a-long Tim begins to feel much better. We sit drinking cool mojitos and look out at the Maitai Shipwreck, which had run aground on Christmas Day in 1916. Although it makes for a popular snorkeling and diving spot, it reminds all who viewed it that the reef protects this island fiercely in its coral grip.

That night, we return to Castaways. Our new friends, Jose and Patricia, join us, and we settle in for Seafood Night! Upon seating, we're handed raffle tickets for a $25 NZ gift certificate for the bar. I feel lucky, blame it on the mojitos. Tim, a sucker for tiki bars, and there's a classic one attached to the restaurant, would undoubtedly be back. I receive the number 58, and I keep saying I'm going to win since I was born in 1958. When they called 58, we all jump up and high-fived each other as if I had won the lottery. To be truthful, there were only a few patrons enjoying Seafood Night, and our chances of winning were quite good. Our enthusiasm is undiminished, even if the other customers look away, shying from our loud table.